


The Gift

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-05
Updated: 2007-05-05
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Bridget gives Mark something she thinks he should have.





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Admittedly all kinds of PWP—what can I say…
> 
> Disclaimer: I like to borrow toys that don't belong to me… but I always treat them well and give them back in _excellent_ condition.

"What is this?"

He's holding a box in his hand, squat and rectangular, the sort of box that Christmas presents come in. More specifically, clothing, and for a shuddering moment he remembers the last time he opened a box shaped like this: the horrific snowman jumper. But, he reminds himself, this is Bridget, who he thinks (hopes?) has more taste than that.

"Late—or early—birthday present." Her blue eyes bore into his soul as they crinkle with a smile. "Just open it."

He raises an eyebrow, slips a fingernail under the edge of the box to break the tape seal. In lieu of wrapping paper she's simply put a big red bow on top, but he's never been one to care for that sort of ceremony. The top comes off and he's met with tissue paper and mottled blue fabric, heavy yet soft to the touch. "What on earth…?"

"Take them out."

He set the box down to lift the contents out and to his utter surprise it is a pair of Levi's denims. His eyes lift up to search hers. She's beyond amused; she's practically giddy.

"Blue jeans?"

"You are, I swear to _God_ , the only man I know who doesn't have a single pair of jeans."

"There's a good reason for that," he explained. "They don't feel comfortable."

She smirked. "Clearly you haven't been getting the right jeans." She bounces up. "Come on. Try them on."

There's something about the way she looks at him with that delightfully beautiful gleam in her eye that causes him to acquiesce, and he stands, taking the jeans with him and walking towards the back of the flat where her bathroom is.

"Hey."

Just in the doorway out of the living room, he stops and turns.

She raises a single eyebrow. "You don't need to go back there for _that_."

"It's bad enough you want me to partake in a fashion show," he said, allowing the faintest hint of a smile, "but I draw the line at stripping in front of you."

She purses her lips, but he can see she's smiling. "You didn't seem to mind last night," she says coolly.

He turns and goes into the bathroom before he says something to incriminate himself, closing the door behind him.

He slips out of his trousers, slips his feet into the legs of the denims, pulls them up over his boxers, over his hips. The jeans are softer than he remembers denim being and fit like they were tailored for him, so much so that he wonders if she didn't somehow manage to take his measurements in his sleep. For some reason she's chosen the button-fly denims, which he could foresee be being quite a nuisance in the loo. He tucks the tail of his dress shirt in then gets each of the buttons done up, adjusts the waist then smoothes down the fabric over the front pockets.

He inspects himself in front of the mirror. They're snug through the buttocks and legs, but not uncomfortably so, which surprises him, though he feels kind of ridiculous wearing them, like he's donned a costume.

Before she starts knocking on the bathroom door demanding to see, he departs for the verdict on his own terms.

She's got her eyes trained on the very spot he'll reappear, so that when he rounds the door jamb into the living room her eyes brighten and she looks him up and down. If anyone else had regarded him in such a way it would only have been described as 'ogled'. The corners of her lips curl into an appreciative smile, and she says simply, " _Very_ nice."

He draws his lips into a tight line. 

She bursts out with a laugh. "What, I can't tell you I think you look sexy in them?"

"Is this why you bought them?" As he asks it he knows he's evading the question.

"Yes and no." She approaches him, puts her hands on his hips, threads her thumbs through the belt loops there, and pulls him closer. "I think you look sexy in just about anything, truth be told, but sometimes I think the world should have a glimpse of how I see you. A little laid back, loose, relaxed… and your nicest features accentuated." She slips her hands around to the crease of denim under his rear to underscore her meaning.

It amazes him that the vibrations of her nails catching on the weave of the fabric can thrum over him like it's not denim at all but instead a tightly-stretched drumhead. His subsequent attempt to be flip falls a little flat: "Never been a sex object before."

She giggles, gets up on her toes and brushes her lips on his cheek. "I love you for your mind of course—it's just quite the bonus that it comes in such an attractive package." Then she squeezes where her fingers have just been trailing. "And, well, this _is_ what first caught my eye."

He scoffs: "You're joking."

"I am not joking. Saw you with your back to the room at that first Turkey Curry Buffet where we met. Very nice view." Her eyes are wide, guileless, sparkling.

He puts his hands on her shoulders, slowly moving his thumbs back and forth; he can just feel the edge of the bra strap under her blouse. "And then I turned around wearing that awful jumper."

"And I rambled on like a drunken floozy."

He allows a smile. "We got better, I think."

She smiles too, then looks amused afterward. "Nice try." 

"What do you mean?"

Her fingers run up over his backside and up to the waist of his jeans, then her nails run along the valley of his spine on the small of his back through the cotton of his dress shirt. He tries to remember to keep breathing. "You're trying to distract me from my… appreciation of you."

"'Leering', more like," he says quietly.

"I think, Mark, that leering involves considerably more looking than what _I'm_ doing," she says coyly, her index fingers circling forward along his waist to the top button of the jeans. Suddenly the denims feel very constricting.

He keeps his gaze steady, his hands on her shoulders. "Did you have me put the jeans on just so you…" He stops, realising how ridiculous the rest of the sentence would have sounded, like he really was some kind of sex obj—

"Could take them off?" she astounds him by completing his thought. "Hm. Yes, I think I did." Her fingers nimbly undo the top one, her thumb dipping down between the halves of fabric for a moment before she does the same to the next. His grip on her shoulders tightens. He feels the next button release, and her fingers sweep low enough to brush against the burgeoning firmness. He's starting to see the appeal of blue jeans. He hears her continue speaking as if she's very far away. "And I think you don't mind the attention as much as you're claiming to mind it."

Up to a certain point he's found that he can chuckle, redirect her attention, and walk away to continue making dinner, slip his coat on to leave or turn over and go to sleep, but after that point has been reached he knows there's no turning back, and he senses he's just passed it, even though he hasn't done anything to her except put his hands on her shoulders. He wonders if it is healthy to desire someone as much as he does her. As she flips the remaining buttons loose, she runs her fingers along the length of him, and he completely breaks, his hands rising to either side of her face and practically yanking her into a devouring kiss.

One of her arms encircles his waist. The other continues working to free him from the constraints of his boxers. He feels the wall against his shoulder blades and that startles him a little, because he hadn't been at all aware that they'd been moving. She breaks from the kiss, panting for air, flush and radiant and looking thoroughly delectable.

He's about to dive forward to reclaim her mouth when she crouches down to her knees, her hands firm on his hips, and he can do no more than lean back against the wall for the support it lends. He feels her lips then her tongue touch the tip, then the wetness and warmth of her mouth around him as far as she can take him in, and his knees reflexively buckle. He combs his fingers into her hair as she moves back and forth, slowly at first (specifically to drive him mad, he's sure of it) and then more quickly, sucking her mouth tightly around him. When her teeth graze against him he cannot help bucking forward into her.

As good as it feels, as skilled as she is hitting all the right spots, he doesn't want to come like this. Instead he wants to fuck her until her cries go hoarse. And like some miracle she pulls away from him. He opens his eyes, looks down to her and she is obviously disappointed and sad. He manages to ask, "What's wrong?"

"You told me to stop."

This he has no consciousness of.

She continues, "I thought you were enjoying that."

He chuckles. "Oh yes, I was, very much," he says between heaves of air. "But there's something I want more." He sinks down along the wall and sits on the floor, trailing his fingers against her hip.

Of course she understands. She rises and it's the fastest he's ever seen her strip off her tights and pants. She then stands over him, feet to either side of his waist, and he grasps her hips to guide her to kneel over his lap.

Their noses practically are touching, their eyes locked, and then suddenly she closes her eyes and gasps as he feels her descend upon him. He moans, nearly coming right then and there. He succeeds this time in claiming her mouth, grips her hips with his hands and pulls her closer to him, if that were somehow even possible.

She's moving frenetically on him and he's meeting her movements with equal and opposite force. He can feel the buttons of the fly pressing into his pelvis but somehow it manages to stimulate him even more. He's not getting the total effect he wants, though. He realises that his toes are touching the edge of that stupid faux fur rug, the one he keeps begging her to get rid of from in front of the fireplace as a fire hazard. He's glad it's there now, because when he launches forward to drive into her with the full force of gravity on his side, she's at least got that cushion behind her instead of hard floor.

She breaks away from that consuming kiss and moans.

He's captured her hands with his own and, resting his weight on his elbows, he has them pinned over her head, her fingers entwined with his. She lifts her chin, and he runs his tongue over her jaw and throat. Her cries escalate as he continues thrusting and she arches up to match his force. Her arms tense as she tries to free them from his grasp and that writhing is somehow even more arousing. She's practically whimpering as she calls his name, lets him know she's so close, _so close,_ and begs him to do it just a little bit harder and faster. He doesn't think he has it in him to comply but somehow he does and he quickly finds he can't hold back any longer, almost like she knew it would be the thing to tip him over the edge. He launches himself forwards and tenses, his thighs trembling, as he comes.

The way she groans and shudders tells him he managed to go just hard enough and fast enough for her.

When he opens and manages to focus his eyes he sees she's lying in roughly the same position she was in when she was beneath him, her arms still stretched upwards, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. He's beside her, his head even with hers.

"Why," she manages.

"'Why' what?" he replies.

"Why don't you ever let me finish?"

A chuckle escapes him. He realises that this seems to be the inevitable result every time she tries. "Because… I think I rather enjoy pleasing you too much."

"But that does please me."

"I don't think we mean 'please' in quite the same way." He runs his fingers along her waist, then smoothes her skirt down. For the most part, he thinks the word 'fuck' is a little too vulgar to describe the act of lovemaking, but sometimes when he's in the middle of it, all he wants to do is, well, fuck her. Like tonight. Even now he substitutes it in his mind for the word 'pleasing' in his previous statement.

"So do you like the jeans?" she asks, turning her face to touch noses with his.

"Mmm. Yes, I do."

"You should wear them later when we go out."

He ponders for a moment. "I think not."

She raises herself on one elbow, looking dismayed. "What? Why not?"

"Because I won't be able to think of anything but your… leering, and it may make me unsuitable for public presentation."

She swears under her breath, but she's smiling all the same as she places a kiss on his lips.

_The end._


End file.
